27. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

LUCY

T he taxi crawls through the early morning traffic, it’s brake lights flashing red in the gray drizzle. I press my forehead against the cool window, watching the raindrops race down the glass. The driver's frown deepens with each passing minute, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Even the car doesn’t so much as whine in protest as the brake is pressed to the floor again and again. I think about making small talk with the driver but decide against it.

It's not even eight o'clock, but the day already feels like a lost cause. I fidget with the frayed edge of my scarf, my stomach twisting into knots. It appears all possible setbacks have occurred, and my mood has been ruined. Whatever. Truthfully, I wasn’t all that upbeat to begin with.

My foot taps anxiously against the rubber floor mat as I go over my internal checklist again. I’m sure I forgot something, but I can’t place just what. I suppose that as long as I have my dress, anything else can be replaced once I arrive in Providence—though it would be inconvenient, considering my father already has my trip planned out, starting from the very second my plane lands.

I want to kick myself for agreeing to this trip in the first place. I truly could not care less about being there for my father’s third wedding. The only reason I gave in was to put an end to his constant badgering about it.

You must be there, Lucy.

Please, Lucy. I’m begging you, Lucy.

It would mean so much to me, Lucy.

The sudden trill of my phone ringing in the silence sends a jolt of momentary terror through me—and apparently, the taxi driver as well. He jumps and looks at me with disdain in the rearview mirror. I offer him a sheepish smile and hurriedly dig out my phone to put an end to the incessant rings. My stomach sinks when my eyes lock on the screen and I see who is calling. I have to fight the urge to pound the bright red DECLINE button.

“Hello, Mother,” I say, sighing when I answer but immediately regretting it. She will pick up on that . My mother takes a deep breath that I know means she’s got a mouthful of an Italian “family is everything” lecture she’s about to give me.

“Good morning, Lucia,” she chirps with faux pleasantness. Then she breaks the act, her voice changing, flattening. “ See ? That’s how you greet your family when they call you. Otherwise, they’ll think you don’t love them, and you wouldn’t want that, would you, Lucia?”

“No, Mother,” I drone like a perfect little robot. Because that’s who she wants me to be. Mommy’s perfect little robot who didn’t move across the country to get a degree in something “useless.” Mommy’s perfect little robot who answers the phone completely animated even if the sun hasn’t yet risen. Mommy’s perfect little robot who will marry a perfect little male robot and make a bunch of perfect little robot children.

“Well, I suppose I forgive you,” she says. “It is the motherly thing to do, after all.” I imagine her peering at her nails distractedly as she says this.

Of all the words to describe my mother—overbearing, inappropriate, visibly and audibly Italian, “motherly” is not one that I would pick. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother, dearly, in fact. I just don’t always particularly like her. I know she has my best interests at heart and all, but her idea of a good life is certainly not mine. If she had her way, I would still be living with her in our little two-bedroom apartment in Queens, working at the salon during the week and the church over the weekend. I wouldn’t have anything of my own. I would just be another version of her, and, trust me, one Isabella Marino is all the world needs.

“You packed everything, didn’t you?” Mom frets. “Toothbrush, pajamas, underwear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

I can feel my face heating up, and I wonder if I will ever reach an age wise enough that my mother will trust me to remember to pack underwear.

“Oh, Lucia.” She sighs dramatically. “It’s so disappointing that you couldn’t reconcile with Jace, at least for the weekend. I just hate that you’re going to your father’s wedding alone. It would be so much more bearable with a date—you know, a distraction from the nonsense going on at the altar.”

Just the mention of my ex-boyfriend is enough to make my entire body tense up, the driver is watching me warily through the rearview mirror. We make eye contact, and I silently plead with him to drive through a tunnel with particularly bad cell reception. He doesn’t seem to get the memo.

“Ma, I’ve told you Jace and I?—”

“Oh, I know, I know, you hate him and will never, ever forgive him, but that’s what you always say. And then what? You’re back together a month later. I was just hoping you could speed the whole thing up this time. Really, hon, it’s getting old.”

I roll my eyes and stop myself just short of sighing—I do not want that lecture again. “Jesus, I’m sorry my love life is causing you so much grief.”

“Lucia, do not?—”

“‘Take the lord’s name in vain.’ I know, Ma, I’m sorry. It’s just that you know this time is different. I’m not taking him back. I can’t.”

My mother exhales softly, and I know I’ve won the argument. There’s not a lot we agree on, but not letting men treat us like dirt just happens to be one of them. She’s the one who taught me how to respect myself, and, while she may not like my independence sometimes, I know she’s proud that I refuse to make the same mistakes she did. It’s the one thing I’ve done right.

“I know, Lucia, and I hope to God you don’t. I swear if I ever see that boy or that two-faced bitch, Amalie Marks?—”

“Ma!”

“What?” Mom cries defensively. “Really, you should be angrier, Lucy. After everything we did for that girl? She has the audacity to steal your boyfriend? I ought to call and give her mother an earful!” her Queens accent is showing even though she tries to hide it.

“Mother, please,” I groan. I can feel a throbbing headache beginning to form, and I suddenly remember what I forgot to pack—painkillers. “Calling Amy’s mother won’t fix anything. We are grown women, I’m handling it, alright? Just stay out of it.”

I look up as a shadow passes through the window and realize we’ve driven under the bridge that separates the west and east sides of the airport. Relief washes over me, knowing that I can finally end this conversation and escape the suffocating tension. But as I prepare to say goodbye, a pang of guilt twists in my chest.

I know I should make more of an effort to connect with my mother, to be patient and understanding even when she's overbearing. She means well, after all. But the thought of delving into another lengthy discussion, rehashing the same old arguments and frustrations, leaves me feeling drained and anxious.

I take a deep breath, trying to push down the guilt that threatens to consume me. I wish I could find the right words to bridge the gap between us, to make her understand that I need space to navigate my own life. But for now, all I can manage is a quick goodbye.

“Be careful, Lucia, and do not buy any of that airport coffee. I’ve heard they lace it with?—”

“Listen, Ma, I’m almost at check-in, so I gotta go. I’ll text you when I land in Maryland. Love you.”

I end the call before my mother can say anything else and tuck my phone securely away in my carry-on bag just as the taxi jolts to a sudden stop. I have to brace myself against the passenger seat to stop from flying forward. My hair flies into my face, and I brush it back while sparing an annoyed half-glare to the driver, who stares right back with eyes void of any compassion.

I throw my carry-on over my shoulder and shimmy out of the stained, narrow backseat, making me grateful I chose to wear jeans instead of a skirt. I slam the door behind me and hurry around to the trunk to collect my suitcase because I am not entirely confident that my pessimistic driver won’t leave with it. Once I am standing securely on the sidewalk with what I hope is all of my things, I watch the yellow cab squeal back into the flow of traffic and zoom off, weaving in and out of the rows of cars until it disappears from sight. I wish the man a silent farewell and march through the automatic sliding doors.

My suitcase clicks and clacks rhythmically against the tiled floor as I follow the signs that eventually lead to a long, beige desk where several pristine attendants are collecting bags and printing out boarding passes. I get through without any notable issues and wait my turn in the pleasantly short security line. I don’t even have to take off my shoes when I go through the metal detector, and I can feel my mood brightening. Perhaps my luck has turned around.

Checking my watch, I find that I got through airport procedures much quicker than expected, and I have three hours to spare before my plane is set to board. I decide to locate my gate and find a nice, quiet corner to relax with a book and unwind from my hectic morning.

As I rummage through my bag, my fingers brush against the familiar, worn cover of my favorite novel, Little Women . A wave of warmth and nostalgia washes over me as I pull it out, running my fingertips over the faded gold lettering on the spine. This battered hardcover was a gift from my grandmother on my eighth birthday, and it has been my constant companion ever since.

Grandma always understood me in a way that no one else did. She saw past my tough exterior and recognized the dreamer within. On lazy summer afternoons, we would sit together on her porch swing, sipping lemonade and discussing the adventures of the March sisters. She taught me that it was okay to be different, to chase my ambitions and to stand up for what I believed in, just like Jo March.

Even now, years after Grandma's passing, I can still hear her gentle voice guiding me through life's challenges. Whenever I feel lost or overwhelmed, I turn to the pages of Little Women , seeking comfort and wisdom in the words we once shared. It's like carrying a piece of her with me, a reminder that I am loved.

I settle into a quiet corner near my gate, the book cradled in my lap. As I begin to read, the bustling airport fades away. For a moment, all the stress and uncertainty of my life melts away, replaced by a warmth surrounding me. I get lost between the pages, blind to the people beginning to shuffle in, the uncountable planes landing and taking off outside, and the announcements over the speaker.

The next time I look up, the sun has made its way to the center of the sky, and the waiting area is completely empty . Fear spikes in my chest as I jump to my feet, collect my things, and run over to the desk just as the door is clicking shut.

No, no, no.

This is not good.

No, no, no, no, no.

I breathlessly attract the woman behind the desk’s attention. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

She glances up from her phone and blinks at me in surprise. I’m sure I look like a mess, but I’m too panicked to care.

“Am I too late to board the flight?”

The woman frowns sympathetically. “I’m sorry, miss, but our boarding window has just ended. We did announce final boarding several times.”

My shoulders slump as a string of explicit curses runs through my mind as I come to terms with just how badly I’ve messed up this time. I scramble to think of a solution, but all I can focus on is my father’s disappointed face when I tell him I’m going to miss his wedding. He’ll be crushed, and, even worse, my mother will give me a lecture on “responsibility” and “accountability”.

I must look as distressed as I feel because the desk attendant types something into her computer, then looks up at me with the first genuine smile I’ve seen all day.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says kindly. “There’s an eleven o’clock flight tonight with a few open seats. If that works for you, I can transfer your ticket. No extra charge.”

Relief washes over me like a wave, and I feel the tension drain from my body. It's as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

"That would be amazing," my voice is thick with gratitude. "Thank you so much."

She prints out my new boarding pass and hands it to me with a wink. "Don't mention it. I’ve missed flights before, and it is not fun. Just try to relax and take it easy, okay?"

I nod, feeling a rush of affection for this kind stranger who has shown me more compassion in five minutes than I've experienced all day. I return to my secluded corner, my heart lighter than it's been in hours.

I pull out my phone and send a quick update to my father letting him know about the change in plans. He responds quickly.

No problem Kiddo – can’t wait to see you tomorrow!

I set an alarm for 10:15, determined not to make the same mistake twice. As I settle back into my chair, I realize that I have ten hours to kill before my flight. I should’ve packed more books.